“I’ve been in bed so long that this is a very special day,” the Dowager said. “I got up particularly to meet you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Fenella said, with a small curtsey, “but please don’t tire yourself on my account.”
“That’s exactly what I said to Mama.” The coolly sardonic voice came from the window.
Fenella turned and gazed with shock upon the dashing Devlin Deverell, Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham. Was this the famous and dreadful rake she had heard about? He was devastatingly handsome. Fenella had seen many men in riding dress before, but none such as this. Tight buckskin riding breeches emphasized his manly physique. His face and arms were unfashionably tanned. However, that only served to enhance the crisp whiteness of his ruffled shirt, left open in a careless way to expose the strength of his chest and the curling dark hairs that peeped out. After her life in the camps, often helping with the wounded, Fenella had seen glimpses of naked men, so the male body held no surprises for her. Nevertheless, she had never felt this way before. Suddenly, the scene felt shockingly intimate to Fenella. She was staring at his physique, transfixed, and then at his face, as sharply etched as a Roman emperor’s head on a gold coin.
His icy stare travelled up and down her entire body. To her horror, Fenella felt vulnerable and exposed. Her body tingled in a strange but pleasant way. Unbelievable sensations swirled in her stomach and she felt faint as thrills vibrated throughout her body. Fenella tried to step backward, anything to get away from that basilisk gaze. Her foot caught a fold in the carpet and she stumbled. Immediately the spell was broken.
“Devlin! Where are your manners?” the Dowager chided him sharply. The sound of her voice jerked the pair out of their reverie. “Poor Miss Preston is no doubt dropping with fatigue and you are simply terrorizing her by staring in that most ungentlemanly manner. If you’re going to stay, then do make yourself useful and get Miss Preston a glass of Madeira.”
“Of course, Mama,” Devlin murmured. “I shall ring for Blenkins. Will you have barley water?”
“Barley water?” The Dowager sputtered in astonished disgust. “Certainly not. That’s for invalids. Of course, I’ll have Madeira as well. And tell Mrs. Perkins to get Cook to surrender up those wonderful macaroons she always bakes and somehow we never get to eat.”
She patted the sofa again. “Come along, my dear, I insist you sit down. You look as if you are about to faint.”
Fenella perched next to the Dowager, who took the girl’s trembling hands in her own. She rubbed Fenella’s chilled fingers for a few moments.
“You’re quite frozen but you’ll warm up soon enough.” The door opened. “Ah, Blenkins, thank you. I see that finally we have macaroons. Do try one, my dear, they are quite delicious.”
Fenella was grateful for the distraction of the glass of Madeira and the attentions of the butler. While she sipped the liquid and nibbled a biscuit, she was able to calm her pounding heart. Gradually a sense of composure came over her and Fenella thought she would be able to deal with anything, even the dangerous duke.
When Devlin made his appearance a few minutes later, he had changed into fresh clothing, which only made Fenella feel more travel-stained and shabbier than ever. Fenella was determined not to look at him at all if she could possibly manage. This was not easy; it appeared that the Duke was also interested in conducting part of the interview.
He strolled to the window and remarked, without looking at her, “Your grasp of languages appears to be quite formidable, Miss Preston. Who directed your education?” He sounded a little bored with the whole proceedings.
Fenella swallowed another sip of the Madeira. “My fa-uncle.”
“Your funkle?” Devlin swung round to stare at her, one eyebrow lifted condescendingly. “I don’t think I have ever heard of one. Is this a new kind of relative?”
“Don’t be wicked, Devlin,” the Dowager chuckled. She patted Fenella’s hand. “Of course she meant her uncle since her father is dead. But she was thinking of her poor, dear, departed Papa, weren’t you dear? You mentioned in your letter that your parents are both dead.”
Fenella nodded in confusion, her cheeks as red as poppies. How could she be so stupid?
The Dowager sipped her Madeira with obvious enjoyment. “I don’t think Miss Preston’s relatives, dead or alive, have anything to do with her abilities, which are written plainly here. If you’re going to bully Miss Preston by giving her that cold fish eye of yours, perhaps you had better go and do something more useful.”
Devlin gave his mother a haughty stare and bowed. “Of course, Mama, if you would be more comfortable without me.”
He stalked out, closing the door with a sharp bang behind him.
“Oh, dear. He is so used to getting his own way that when I put my foot down he can become quite miffed. Now, don’t take any notice of Devlin. He simply does not like newcomers. He will get used to you, I dare say. I do hope you will stay, my dear, because I am sure we will get along famously.”
The Dowager chattered on about books, her duties and her remuneration, but Fenella hardly heard a word. The effect the Duke had on her was disturbing, to the extent that Fenella thought she would never be able to concentrate on anything as long as he was under the same roof. The few young men she had met through attending church and her aunt’s small circle of acquaintances had been gauche and clumsy, ill at ease in her presence and overwhelmed by her intelligence and beauty. Their fumbled attempts at sophisticated conversation and witty repartee had left her bored and irritable. This man’s presence was electrifying. Perhaps she had better refuse the position. She opened her mouth to say exactly that when she glimpsed the satisfied look on the Dowager’s face.
“Well, it’s settled then. You will stay for a three-month trial period and we shall see how we get along.”
Fenella did not have the heart to refuse. Perhaps she could bear it if she just stayed out of the Duke’s way, and he was bound to go up to London soon.
The Dowager rang the bell, saying, “You must be so tired, my child. Molly will show you to your room and Mrs. Perkins will arrange supper on a tray for you. An early night will do wonders.”
Fenella nodded. She felt exhausted and very tearful, longing to be at home with Aunt Preston and Amber. The door opened and the Duke stalked back into the room. His expression was cold. Fenella stood up and he bowed to her.
“Good night, Miss Preston,” he said.
Fenella murmured a good night and left the room, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the door, shut her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. It was over at last. But was it? Through the wood panel, she could hear faint voices.
“It’s no good, Mama,” Devlin announced. “She must go.”
“Go?” asked the Dowager in tones of faint surprise. “She has only just arrived. Why have you taken against her so? How very personal of you, Dev. Most unbecoming.”
“Dash it, Mama. It’s not personal at all,” he blustered.
“I think you are being excessively personal but do give me your reasoning why I should not employ this delightful and suitable young woman?” asked his mother.
“She is far too pretty!” Devlin snapped. “The place will be swarming with lovelorn young swains in the wink of an eye.”
“My dear Dev,” the Dowager laughed, “I think not. In fact, I think you’re just jealous that the lovely Miss Preston will be spending her days reading to me and not to you.”
Fenella listened to these words with growing horror. He truly hated her. And it seemed as if he wanted her gone as soon as possible. She opened her eyes; Molly was staring at her, a look of concern on her round, rosy country face.
“Are ye alright, Miss?” she asked. “Ye looks very pale so sudden-like.”
“Thank you,” Fenella whispered, “but I shall be perfectly fine.”
Molly dipped a small curtsey. “Mrs. Perkins says I’m to take ye to yer room, Miss, where yer things are already, and ’ot water an’ a tray of some ni
ce supper.” Her words burst out in a rush, as if Molly was afraid she might forget something.
Fenella followed Molly’s bobbing cap along the passage. Suddenly there was a noise from the Dowager’s room and an exclaimed, “Mama!” Fenella and Molly turned in surprise. The door was yanked open and the Duke stood on the threshold. Fenella and Molly stared at him. Molly’s mouth formed a small, terrified “O.”
“Miss Preston!” he snapped.
Fenella gazed at him, her heart pounding. “Yes, Your Grace?”
He looked at her for what seemed like several minutes, his burning gaze boring into her very heart. Finally, he said, “Nothing. Nothing at all,” before stalking down the passage in the opposite direction.
Molly had a blank look on her face that gave away no information.
Fenella smiled and said, “Goodness, this house is huge. So many rooms. I hope I don’t get lost tomorrow.”
Molly giggled with relief. “This way, Miss. Ye’re in the Blue Bedroom. And don’t worry, I’ll fetch ye tomorrow mornin’ and show ye where’s the breakfast parlour an’ everythin’.”
Later that night, after a bath and a delicious supper, Fenella snuggled into her bed, the covers pulled up under her chin. The room was far more luxurious than she had expected. Adding to the comforts of a four-poster bed were crisp sheets, a warming pan at her feet and a beautiful coverlet. A small writing desk, complete with supplies of ink and paper, several cosy chairs and a fireplace completed her comfort.
“I shall try to bear it,” she thought drowsily, as sleep claimed her. “Even if he hates me.”
Chapter Three
The days slid past in a tranquil routine until Fenella realised she had been at Deverell House for three weeks. As much as she tried to keep out of the Duke’s way, it seemed as if he was around every corner or crossing her path wherever she went. Of course, he did not even cast more than a brief glance at her and would give her just the very tiniest bow of acknowledgement. One dull morning, the Dowager woke up with a dreadful head cold and begged Fenella to stay and nurse her. Fenella obliged and spent the day in the Dowager’s bedroom, reading to her and sponging her feverish forehead. It was a gloomy, cloudy day that threatened a thunderstorm in the late afternoon.
Fenella had not seen the Duke at all that day. The Dowager had sent him away when he had knocked to enquire as to her health. At last, the Dowager fell into a restless sleep, tossing and turning fitfully. Fenella gazed through the window at the darkening sky, her book abandoned on the sofa. Ominous peals of thunder rumbled closer, spatters of rain turned into pelting drops as lightning crackled and sizzled above the trees. Fenella shivered, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. Soon the sky filled with black clouds and torrential rain poured in sheets from the heavens. The Dowager woke up with a start and gave a faint whimper of alarm.
Fenella ran to the bed. “Pray do not agitate yourself, ma’am, I am here.”
“Scheherazade!” the Dowager croaked. “Where is she?”
As the Dowager spoke, Fenella heard a dreadful peal of thunder and a tremendous bolt of lightning tore through the sky, momentarily lighting up the room with a brilliant flash. It was a terrible storm. Then Fenella heard a frantic yowl.
“Scheherazade! She’s out in the storm,” the old lady wailed, clutching Fenella’s hand. Fenella ran to the window. She was just in time to see a white furry shape streaking across the lawn, followed by the Duke’s two black and white spaniels, Piper and Floss. The dogs were barking with excitement.
“I’ll fetch her right away.”
“Did I hear barking as well? Scheherazade is so frightened of the dogs and they love to tease her.” She looked anxious. “Oh, where is Devlin?”
“I’ll call Harbottle to attend to you while I bring her in,” Fenella said, escaping from the room.
Harbottle was eager to take Fenella’s place. Fenella put her shawl over her head and slipped out the front door. The heavy rain poured down, drenching her in seconds. Following the direction she had seen the animals take, Fenella made her way toward a thick grove of trees. Once inside the shelter of the grove she began to call for the cat. The minutes passed; there was no sign of the dogs. Perhaps they had run back to the house. The storm clouds gathered even thicker overhead and the trees swayed like wild creatures in the howling wind.
Fenella was icy cold by now; her teeth were chattering and her fingers felt frozen as she clutched the soaked shawl in vain. Another tremendous crack of lightning lit up the grove. In that fraction of a second, Fenella glanced up at the waving branches and glimpsed a sodden bundle shivering high above her head. It was Scheherazade, clinging to a bough, mewling with fear.
“Thank heavens, there you are, you silly cat.” Murmuring endearments to the terrified animal, she tucked up her skirts and climbed the tree. “It’s lucky I’m such a tomboy.”
She looked at the frightened cat, now just an arm’s length away. “Here, Kitty. Come to me.”
But the distraught animal shrank away from her clutching fingers; it backed along the branch, hissing and spitting. Fenella was determined the cat would not escape so she made a grab, almost falling off the branch as she swayed in the direction of the dripping creature. With a firm grasp, she seized Scheherazade behind the neck and swung the struggling animal back toward her. Wriggling and yowling, Scheherazade dropped into Fenella’s lap and clawed her way up the front of Fenella’s dress, all twenty sharp talons hooked into the fabric.
“Now what?”
She looked over the cat’s soaked head to the ground. They seemed to be terribly high up. It was impossible to climb down with one hand clutching the frightened cat.
“This is ridiculous,” Fenella said to her now-purring companion. “Look at the trouble we’re in. This is your fault. We’ll die of exposure or break our legs by falling out the tree.”
Scheherazade simply snuggled further into her bodice. Fenella gave a despondent sigh. There seemed to be no choice; she would have to wait until the storm passed. She hoped someone would come looking for both of them. As it grew darker, the storm raged on and seemed in no hurry to rumble off to the next valley. Fenella clutched the shivering cat. She was frozen stiff and very tired. Suddenly she heard a faint clopping noise—could that be hoof beats? She peered down. Perhaps it was Finch? The shadowy outlines of a horse and rider were visible in the gloom. Fenella’s heart almost stopped.
No, please, not him.
It was the Duke, riding Lucifer. The great black horse snorted and pawed the ground. Scheherazade dug her claws in harder, growling in protest and fear.
“Miss Preston,” Devlin called. “You will have to jump down into my arms.”
What? Fenella could hardly believe her ears. Impossible!
“I c-can’t,” she stuttered through stiff lips.
“I’m afraid you must,” came the calm reply. “The storm will persist and by then you may have injured yourself. Jump and I will catch you.”
“I can’t!” Fenella sobbed. Tears poured down her cheeks, now numb with cold. “I’m so afraid.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Devlin replied. His voice was gentle. “But you must trust me. I shall not let you fall. I am here.”
He looked up at her and opened his arms.
As Fenella heard his words, slow warmth stole into her heart. “What must I do?”
“Hold that loathsome beast with both hands and simply drop down. I am directly beneath you; you cannot fall.”
Loathsome beast…Fenella smiled. She folded her arms around Scheherazade, squeezed her eyes shut, gritted her teeth and dropped straight down into the Duke’s embrace. The shock of her weight knocked him back a little in the saddle. Lucifer snorted and stamped to regain his footing. The Duke closed his arms about Fenella’s body. As he wrapped his thick greatcoat around them both, she could have sworn she heard him whisper, “At last!”
Then he was off, galloping through the trees to the house, holding her tightly against his chest. Her face pressed in
to his neck. She could feel the warmth of his skin against hers, smell his masculinity and hear his heart beating. Fenella felt as if she could stay in his arms forever.
When they reached the front door, the Duke barked orders to Mrs. Perkins and Blenkins. He plucked Scheherazade out of Fenella’s grasp and deposited the indignant wet bundle into Blenkins’ arms.
“You had better dry that thing off and return it to Her Grace before I skin it alive. Tell my mother they are safe.”
Blenkins bowed as he clutched the snarling, spitting cat. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Devlin carried Fenella to the library where a roaring fire was already blazing. Her teeth were chattering and her body shook uncontrollably.
“Blankets! Brandy!” he yelled as Mrs. Perkins came staggering in with an armful of warm blankets. “See that the fire is banked up in Miss Preston’s room and draw a hot bath right away.”
Mrs. Perkins dropped a quick curtsey and scuttled out the library to do his bidding, closing the door behind her.
Devlin laid Fenella down on the sofa and ripped the front of her dress open, tearing the fragile material as easily as paper with his strong fingers. He wrestled impatiently with the wet garment as he yanked the folds away from Fenella’s body. She gasped in shock and fear as his arms slid behind her, expertly pulling aside the remaining sodden fabric, leaving her clad only in a thin chemise.
“Hold still, you little fool,” he growled. “Forget dignity for once. Do you want to die of pneumonia?”
She shook her head, her teeth still chattering. He tossed the garments aside and rubbed her hard in a blanket until her skin tingled all over. Then he held a glass against her teeth and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. The fiery liquid burned a path right to her stomach. Fenella coughed and spluttered as tears sprang to her eyes.
She sat up, trying to hold the tattered remains of her shift over her breasts. He gently moved her hand away.
“You’re hurt.” Ten tiny puncture marks oozed blood onto her satiny skin.
“It’s from Scheherazade,” she whispered. “She was so frightened. So was I.”
The Dangerous Duke Page 3
